


if you like piña coladas

by katietonks



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Cruise Ships, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Jimmy Buffett References, M/M, Vacation, Writer Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 15:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21460300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katietonks/pseuds/katietonks
Summary: Renowned children's book author, Bucky Barnes, rose to immediate acclaim with his very first publication but has since fallen into a creative slump that his publishing company hopes can be fixed by a tropical cruise, countless complimentary drinks, and an introduction to his new handsome, blonde illustrator.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 17
Kudos: 213





	if you like piña coladas

**Author's Note:**

> If you, like me, are also desperately missing the summer vibes and absolutely despise Daylight Saving Time, then this is the perfect fic for you. So throw on a hideous shirt, your favorite sunglasses, crank up the Jimmy Buffett and please enjoy! :)

“You’re _breaking _my_ heart_, Peg!”

“I’m sorry, Bucky, but we can’t keep avoiding the reality of the situation.”

“Peggy, please, I’ll do anything.”

“There’s nothing you can do that can change this.” The phone distorted her lighthearted chuckle. “You can’t change someone’s mind about retirement.”

Hands on his hips, he sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll die trying.”

“Is working with a new artist really a life or death situation?”

“I don’t _want _a new artist!” He considered flipping the call to FaceTime so that she was forced to bear witness to the pout – the genuine _pout_ – on his lips before remembering that he let his hair air-dry throughout the morning, so it currently sat in a messy bun of natural waves and frizzy curls on top of his head. No one deserved to see him like that. Although, looking like he had just escaped a humid wind tunnel might have helped to illustrate how much this decision was destroying his life – if only he had a manager who cared about his wellbeing. He settled for crossing his arms and hoping the airwaves could carry his pout all the way to London. “I want Ethel.”

Peggy heaved a sigh of her own. “Ethel is 82-years-old, suffers from arthritis, and wants to spend time with her grandchildren before they have their own grandchildren.”

“Yeah, but we had a good thing going.”

And they did. When he first saw the original concept art, it was the closest thing he’d felt to falling in love. Seeing the characters brought to life that he had only envisioned in his mind for – well, _hours_, really. Of course, when he submitted his entire portfolio of works he had collected throughout his life, the publisher had no interest in the poetry he took pride in. Or the makeshift beginnings of a meditation on life, love, and loss. Or the thoroughly-planned, sci-fi trilogy whose other-worldly settings he had hastily sketched into journals as a kid with plotlines strung onto his bedroom wall with string, with characters who had grown along with him throughout high school and themes that he refined in college, that he could pitch from the bottom of his heart, no note cards. But, no, of course not. The publisher chose to pursue the _children’s book_ he had thrown together the morning before class, completely forgetting he had an assignment due, basing the idea off of the first thing he saw in his dorm room, and playing off his own marker-scribble drawings as intentional. Who would have thought that vodka-soaked gummy bears would earn him a B+ and a book deal?

He wondered if his publisher ever became aware of the inspiration behind The Gummi Bears, but after quickly becoming one of their best-selling series, they probably didn’t care about his and Sam’s alcohol experiments. Hell, with that level of instant success, they should have asked him about making fishbowl-inspired Jello shots with Swedish Fish and empty Keurig K-cups.

(No, actually they definitely should not have. The night began with eight shots each that tasted like blue raspberry with the unshakeable bite of Pike Place roast. In their cheap mini-fridge, the Jello never set correctly, and the Swedish Fish somehow dissolved into an indistinguishable red puddle that could only be described as – _Nordic, nautical goo_. The night ended with AT-major Nat giving Bucky a concussion test after falling off the top bunk bed. Along with Sam and Riley, they agreed to let the night live in infamy and stick to regular shot glasses.)

Seeing how The Gummi Bears had become an overnight sensation, however, the publisher felt no need to consider any other new IP's, milking it for all it was worth. And milk it, they did. Bucky’s books became a staple on shelves all across the country, right alongside dear old Theo Guiesel and the Little Goldens. They earned a brand deal with the third major candy company in the United States to create officially-licensed Gummi BearsTM. As soon as they hit stores, the scented, slime-esque, silicon toys sold out, becoming the hottest, most-coveted Christmas list item of the year. Bucky got one of each color. (He propped his rainbow bear menagerie on his windowsills.)

With the first extension of his contract, he was also given the news of their affiliation with the upcoming pop supergroup for kids with a familiar name: The Gummi Bears. (He rolled his eyes but accepted the royalties.)

His (not-so) hardwork had somehow lent its title, much to the publisher’s chagrin, to a new street name for MDMA. A fact he learned on his own, nearly spitting out his cereal onto his couch while watching MSNBC, doubling over in laughter and reaching for his phone to inform the group chat. (Lucky Charms, by the way, because the Gummi Bears-licensed cereal was far too artificial for his taste and reminded him of his college days when he had an affinity for Arbor Mist and fruity-flavored schnapps.)

After the tenth book came the animated movie. Having sold his rights in the fine print, he had little to do with production but still got his name in the credits and an invitation to the premiere. He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect from the premiere of a G-rated movie, but the multi-colored-carped at 5 PM was painfully child-friendly. The after-party at an exclusive nightclub downtown, on the other hand, was horrifically not, featuring Gummi BearsTM, The Gummi Bears, and Gummi Bear. He only indulged in two of the three and only because he never liked pop music. (After the after-party, he was pulled into a threeway with two of the, apparently, A-list voice actors, who proved to him that they definitely deserved to make a living with their mouths.)

He realized early in his career that the fever-dream, celebrity lifestyle would never be sustainable in his line of work. The publisher didn’t drug-test him, but there was a stipulation somewhere stating that he needed to keep his image clean if he wanted to keep his contract. He didn’t necessarily need the work, having made more than enough from his sales of books alone, but he liked his job. He loved writing – even if he couldn’t write what he wanted to write. But, hey, telling kids that it was A-okay to be gay was always a good thing, right?

After putting away his pride, Bucky accepted his success of being a children’s author. He tucked away his space adventures with a promise to return at a later date and put on a smile to start his library tour, meeting snot-covered kids and their surprisingly, (but impressively) thirsty single parents, who all shared the same love for Bucky’s fruit-flavored, lesson-sharing ursine pals. Sometimes when he read his stories out loud, he cringed at how simple his own language was but also knew that he couldn’t complain. His simple writing paid off his student loans by the time he turned thirty and even helped Becca with some of hers, gave him a penthouse view overlooking the city, and a lifetime supply of what became his favorite gummy candy.

Obviously, he could never take sole credit for the success of his books – or what Sam liked to it, his Gummi Empire. Everywhere he went, he was joined by a lovely, elderly lady, who wore thick, cat-eye glasses and refused to utilize any technological assistance in her drawings. Oddly enough, they made a great pair. They attended everything together – all the tours, all the bookstore openings, all the premieres. He was perfectly pleased with holding her arm and being her eye-(butterscotch-or-strawberry-filled)-candy. The only time they separated was when she returned home for her early bedtime and he returned someone else’s home for a late night, but _now_. Now, she was leaving him for good, not even joining him for their last hurrah. 

Bucky tossed another pair of socks haphazardly into his suitcase. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ – I had a plan for this week.”

There was a pause in the same way that she paused in person to stifle a laugh to maintain the professional air of their meetings. Almost too professional, she said slowly, “Go on.”

“Listen, all I wanted from this vacation was an opportunity to unironically wear my entire wardrobe of Hawaiian shirts, drink Mai Tais on the beach until I passed out face-first into the sand, and listen to so much Jimmy Buffet that when my sister looks at my Spotify history, she calls me in hysterics, questioning whether or not I’m still her brother.”

The red-lipstick smile bled through the phone, along with the hint of laugh being covered by her hand. “Okay. And none of those – _activities_, are things you can do without Ethel?”

“With Ethel, I planned on us spending our mornings wearing our matching Louis V sunglasses while we casually admired the nude sunbathers, switching to shuffle board at lunch, and swing dancing the night away, because for an artificial hip, that dame can _move_, Peg.”

Forfeiting the professionalism, she did nothing to mute the cackle that came from the speaker. “For someone so desperately trying to cling to his last dregs of youth, Barnes, you certainly sound ready to move into a retirement home and consume all of your meals through a straw.”

He rolled his eyes but had to admit that having a best friend who was two generations older than him had its disadvantages, particularly how late – or, rather, _early_ – he had grown accustomed to eating dinner. “It’s not my fault that I’m the youngest person in the entire company-”

“Watch it.”

“-after you.”

“Thank you.”

He folded another shirt, no longer finding enjoyment in the lei-adorned parrots. “I just can’t believe that she left already. She’s probably back in Kansas by now.”

“You mean _Indiana_?”

“Sure, great, somewhere with too many farms and not enough electricity. Does it matter?”

“It might when you try to visit her for Thanksgiving.”

He smirked. Every year, she invited him to visit her for Thanksgiving, and every year, he politely declined. Mainly because he already had one Jewish grandma demanding his presence at her dining room table, but also because he had a somewhat irrational yet acceptable fear of small towns with cornfields. It could have probably been traced back to the _Goosebumps _book about a demonic scarecrow (or whatever) and one-too-many run-ins with bullies in middle school. The thought made him shutter but reminded him of something. “Is R. L. Stein gonna be there?”

“What?”

“Nevermind. Who all’s going to be at this shindig?”

“Just about everyone with a running series. They want you all to come back with at least five concepts for summer-themed books.”

_Great_. The decks would be filled with authors in their 60s and 70s who still wrote about dogs inspired by their childhood pets or included vaguely problematic descriptions of characters in their mystery novellas. Everyone would be hunting for their inspiration in paradise, finding that they all were struggling with the same creative burnout.

He groaned, muttering, “There goes my chance for a fall fling."

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” There had to be someone. He knew there was someone relatively new to the company who wasn’t too far from his age. “What about the guy who writes about bats?”

“Bats?”

“Not bats. Birds. Hawks, maybe?"

There was another one of those damn pauses. “Are you talking about _Clint Barton_?”

_That was it! _They had met once before, and he seemed – cute, in a wiry, lost Labrador kind of way. “Maybe.”

“Oh, Bucky,” she said, chiding him lightly. “You do _not _want to have a fall fling with him, and you know it.”

“Yeah, I know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose after glancing at the pictures from Sam and Riley’s wedding that he had framed on his dresser. “I just wanted to, I don’t know, finally find someone. Or whatever.”

“Well, you’ll be meeting your new artist.”

He pinched harder. “Oh, so in addition to wallowing in my lonesome without my dear Ethel, I now have to tote around her replacement?”

“Come on, Barnes, have an open mind here. After all, Ethel was the one to choose him. Apparently a fellow member of her quilting circle.”

When he saw stars, he threw up his hands in frustration. _Awesome; yet another goddamn geriatric artist_. “Perfect,” he said, his unimpressed tone screaming sarcasm. “What’s his name?”

“Steve Rogers.”

Oh, so – _hot_. He rolled his eyes, as the name conjured images of a kindhearted man from Pittsburgh wearing a long-sleeve sweater who wanted to be his neighbor. “Was Fred his son?”

Peggy paused before continuing, patient as ever, “Just wait, Barnes. You might be surprised.”

“Doubt it. Miserable? Probably.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be so very miserable on your all-expenses-paid vacation to paradise. Safe travels, hon.”

Bucky waved goodbye even though he knew that she couldn’t see him through the phone call. He knew that a change of scenery and a chance to escape the gray, dismal November weather and the start of seasonal depression as a result of the sun setting at 5 PM sharp – _the hell was up with that? _– would be good for him. He also knew that she was right about needing to be more open-minded; he wrote that moral into his own damn books, for Christ’s sake. Still, he simply refused to accept the idea of having a new artist.

_Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers?_

He could never picture that combination on the covers of his books; those names just didn’t sound right together. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Despite Peggy’s insistence, the first day of the trip was a bust. Without his sweet Ethel by his side, holding onto his arm, he simply couldn’t find his groove. He saw far too much saggy skin in one hour than he had ever wanted to see in his entire lifetime, put up a shameful performance on the shuffleboard court, and had no dance partner, watching the couples from where he sat alone at the bar. _How depressing_. He did meet Clint Barton again, and their brief encounter only proved Peggy right, once again. Holding up his young daughter in a piggy-back ride around his shoulders, he introduced Bucky to the inspiration behind all of his books, the dedication on every first-page, and even dared to ask who _his _inspiration was.

_Who did he write books for? Himself?_

Well, that was another depressing thought to add to the list that he reconsidered while toying with the pink, paper parasol in his pineapple. For a moment, he considered sending an S.O.S. message to Nat to take a flight to the middle of the Atlantic and rescue him from a terrible vacation, but he knew that she would just laugh. So would Sam. Riley would potentially sympathize – at least, until he would suggest drowning his worries with another complimentary daiquiri.

An interruption of his self-pity came in the form of a voice over his shoulder, asking, “Bucky Barnes?”

He’d heard his voice called out timidly as a question before – multiple times. Usually, the asker turned out to be a parent who used his books as bedtime stories and actually bothered to look up the man whose work they read to their kids every night, which was apparently something people did. (_Who knew?_) Sometimes, the encounters worked in his favor, with a free coffee or a phone number in exchange for his signature; sometimes, they did not, forced to throw on a pained smile while taking a flash-on picture with squirmy children and interrupting his dinner with one of those phone numbers.

Turning on his barstool, he faced the man and felt his eyebrows raise above his aviators – another thing Sam had laughed at him for. Questionable sunglasses choice aside, he immediately had a good feeling this particular encounter working out in his favor.

Tall, broad, and blonde. Sparkling blue eyes only rivaled by the crystalline waves on opposite sides of the boat. A gleaming, Colgate-commercial smile. A bright orange Hawaiian shirt with palm trees wearing their own anthropomorphic Ray-Ban sunglasses that Bucky couldn’t tell whether he wanted to be on his bedroom floor or in his own closet more.

Yeah, he had an _amazing _feeling about this encounter working out in his favor.

“I’m Steve,” Steve said, introducing himself and inviting himself to sit beside Bucky. 

“Oh,” Bucky said, wishing he had something more to say and wishing he remembered this face.

Realizing his name meant nothing to Bucky, he tried again, “Steve Rogers?”

“Oh!” For someone who made a living with his words, Bucky really wished better ones would come to his mind, but what popped up were, “Yeah, wow, Steve.”

Steve raised a somewhat questioning, somewhat concerned eyebrow.

Bucky tried to compose himself in any attempt to save the moment. “Sorry, I’m just surprised that you’re-"

Propping his elbows on the bar, Steve simply listened in amusement, corners of his eyes crinkling while suppressing a smile.

“-not 50-years-old.”

The corners of his lips quirked up, betraying him, and Steve allowed himself to gin. “Turned 49 back in July, actually. Hope that’s not a deal-breaker.”

“Sorry,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No, I know. Being friends with Ethel, I’m sure you made some fair assumptions.”

“I hear you’re in her quilting circle.”

“I am, and I love it!” Steve sounded completely genuine, and Bucky smiled at that. “We make them and give them to shelters around the city. Whoever needs them.”

“Well, that’s very – nice.” Bucky thought of the last time he participated in any kind of service event. He read to kids in libraries and bookstores. Was that charity? Or was that work?

“Ethel started taking a liking to me when I took care of her cats for a weekend, which is really only a humble brag because I’m allergic to cats. When she came back, I was a sneezy, itchy mess, and she made me chicken noodle soup to make me feel better even though all I needed was to get the hell out of there and take a Claritin.”

Stirring his straw in the strawberry slush, Bucky recalled the time when he caught a cold on one of the book tours, and she force-fed him soup she cooked in one of the hotel kitchenettes.

“She talked about you all the time,” Steve said, drawing him back to the conversation.

“All good things?”

“Terrible, actually.”

Bucky smirked, not entirely sure if that was a joke or not. “Did I live up to _your _fair assumptions, based on me being friends with Ethel?”

“Oh, I knew what you looked like,” he said, instantly following Bucky’s train of thought.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. As soon as I found out we were working together, I looked you up, and when the first picture popped up, gave a little,” he gave a slight half-shrug, while his eyes ran a quick once-over up and down Bucky’s body – such a subtle, practiced movement that could have easily been missed if he wasn’t searching him so intently, “‘Alright.’ Scrolled down to the ‘Personal Life’ section of your Wikipedia page and gave another, ‘_Alright_.’”

His gaze was perfectly innocent, but the sharpness of his smug, self-satisfied grin was anything but.

Knowing his eyes were concealed behind the reflective material of his polycarbonate lenses, Bucky took the liberty to give Steve his own once-over; except, his would have appeared slow, deliberate, and painfully obvious if it wasn’t for his sunglasses. “Alright,” he agreed, softly chuckling to himself at how woefully inadequate that word was at describing the man at his side.

“Well,” Steve said, as he made a motion as if to stand from the bar, “I think it’s safe to say that I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Bucky nodded, but feeling compelled to make him stay, he gestured toward his beverage. “Care for a drink?”

Settling back into his seat like he never intended to leave it, Steve shrugged, carefree as can be. “Sure.”

“Are you a fan of watermelon-strawberry-mango daiquiris served in a slowly-melting pineapple?”

Amused and maybe even a little intrigued, Steve eyed the drink but shook his head. “I’m more of a Sex on the Beach kinda guy.”

Bucky swallowed, wondering whether it was the booze or the sun or something else entirely that was making his cheeks flush, and asked an unnecessary question, “The drink?”

“Sure,” Steve said and plucked the rose-carved strawberry from the top of Bucky’s drink, refusing to break eye contact while he took a bite.

_Oh_, Bucky thought, _he’s too damn good_. Bucky glanced over his shoulder to where the sunset painted the sky with orange and pink watercolor hues, casting golden rays across the surface of the shimmering, sending a slight glare to his eyes. “You done this before?”

“Work with a writer?” he asked, playing dumb, while he followed Bucky’s line of sight. “Believe it or not, I haven’t. But I think it’ll be a fun experience.”

_Huh_. With that level of confidence at the suggestion, Bucky was expecting a fairly different answer. A surge of confidence coursed through his own body, a reminder that Steve wasn’t the only attractive man at the bar, and he took advantage of the opportunity to pull out his hair tie. Running a hand through the back of his hair, he watched the way Steve’s eyes tracked the movement of the waves of his hair cascading against his shoulders. Bucky smirked. “Looks like I’ll be the one with experience for – this experience.”

“With all that experience,” Steve mused, leaning forward, “can I ask you a question?”

“Of course."

“I’m trying to visualize how our names will be arranged on the cover of the book. Does the author prefer to be on the top or on the bottom?”

With that, Steve snatched the sunglasses that had rested on top of Bucky’s head for the entirety of their conversation and rose from the bar.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The silk sheets of Steve’s cabin bed weren’t exactly the warm sand that Bucky had been envisioning, but they were a few days from land and he wasn’t going to complain about the gorgeous man he had followed there. Propping his elbow against a pillow and resting his head against his hand from where he laid on his side, Bucky watched said man throw all semblance of charisma out of the porthole window as he fumbled with his laptop at the desk after it had started blaring music. But it wasn’t just any music. “I am so sorry about that,” Steve apologized as frantically as he hit the ‘volume down’ key, coughing out a shaky laugh. “Jimmy Buffett isn’t exactly the vibe I was going for.”

Bucky’s eyes had lit up from the first twangy chord, and he sat up entirely. “Excuse you, that is absolutely the vibe _I’m _going for.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s expression appeared somewhere between surprised, confused, and impressed. “So, you wouldn’t mind a little bit of ‘Boat Drinks?’”

“I’d encourage it actually. Feel free to add ‘Son of a Son of a Sailor’ to that playlist.”

“How about ‘Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude?’”

In that moment, smiling genuinely for the first time that day, Bucky acknowledged that he had been wrong about many things; seeing artwork for his bears had been wonderful, but _this_ was the closest he’d felt to falling in love.

With his boy James back on in the background, singing smoothly and strumming away, and this new boy Steve joining him on the bed, kissing him gently and toying with his hair, Bucky realized that all of this was simply too good. _Too perfect_. Bucky sighed as he pulled away, still close enough to feel Steve’s breath on his mouth, and loosened his grasp on the collar of Steve’s shirt. “Wait,” he said, almost surprised to hear the words leaving his mouth. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

“Okay,” Steve said, blinking but leaning back entirely, respectfully, to put space between them. “Yeah, sure.”

Missing the warmth, Bucky sighed again but knew that this was the right thing. “I really want to do this. Trust me, I _really_, really want to do this,” and the self-assured smirk that Steve gave him only made him want to even, even more, but, “_but_, if we’re going to be working together, I don’t want to rush into something that could potentially jeopardize that professional relationship.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, of course. That’s very – responsible, of you.”

“Well, that’s what they always call me,” Bucky started, unable to finish without laughing, “responsible.” He shook his head and sat up completely, crossing his legs underneath him. “At the very least, we could brainstorm a few book ideas first. I guess that’s the whole point of this trip, right? Which you can blame me for.”

“Blame you for a free, week-long cruise to the Bahamas?”

“They think a change of scenery will magically make me creative again.” Bucky distracted himself with a loose thread at the bottom of his shirt. Was he really about to bear his soul to a stranger? When he needed to vent and didn’t want to be mercilessly made fun of by his supposed lifelong best friends, Ethel was always willing to lend her ear. In a way, this conversation could have served as a test to see if Steve was truly ready to fulfill the role of Bucky’s artist. “If I’m being honest, I haven’t felt inspired to write since I was a teenager. Hell, maybe even earlier. I always thought the hardest part of being writer would be establishing myself and finding a fan base and convincing a publisher to take a chance on me, but it turns out that that’s the easiest part. _Writing _– the thing that I’ve done since I could hold a pencil and the thing that I love more than anything else – that’s been the hardest part. And it’s not even like the concepts I need to come up with are all that complex, but sometimes, I think that it’s the complexity that I’m missing."

Bucky brought his knees to his chest, and as he vaguely directed his attention out of the corner of his eye to Steve, who had been patiently listening the entire time, he continued. “When I was sixteen, I wrote this short story about two soldiers during World War II. One was smart and charismatic and was drafted before he had a chance to really make something of his life, and the other had a lot of health issues and felt that the _only _way to make something of his life, knowing that he was going to die soon anyway, was to sacrifice himself for another soldier who didn’t deserve to die so young. The two had grown up together and fell in love but never told the other before they lost their chance. When they met up in the war, the first one died in a freak accident where there was no opportunity for the second to take his place, like he had hoped, ending up sacrificing himself to save the rest of the world, instead. But that wasn’t the end, because through some sci-fi, superhero _deus ex machina_ bullshit, the two never really died and met up again in the present, where they could finally admit their love for each other and live happily ever after.

“It wasn’t that special. Written on a whim with the first draft scribbled into the margins of my notebook, because I was bored as fuck in history class. My English teacher loved it, though. She insisted on submitting it to different magazines, who weren’t really interested in publishing it, but it did win a local award, where I got to read it out loud at a ceremony and be presented with a pin and a certificate. That was the most success I’ve ever felt in my entire writing career. I could have died perfectly happy with Ms. Danvers’ admiration and a paper that I could have printed out myself, but I guess fate had other plans.

“Now, I make an abhorrent amount of money for telling children the importance of _sharing_. Except, it’s not just the complexity that I miss. I miss writing without the confines of having to fill a certain model and fulfill all the guidelines that I set up for myself. I miss writing something because it feels like the right thing to do in the moment, not because I have a deadline to meet. The last thing I wrote for fun was my best man’s speech at my friends’ wedding, but even with that, I had to follow some sort of template. I just want to write something that matters, you know?”

“Well,” Steve said after nearly an entire minute of silence, blinking a few more times, “I think it’s obvious that I do not know in any way what the life of a famous children’s book author is like. But I do know what it’s like to keep filling a mold that isn’t you over and over until it creatively drains you. I studied graphic design in college and spent seven years of my life working my ass off at the same advertising company, going absolutely nowhere. The money was perfectly fine, but after drawing and redrawing the same logos with small tweaks that other people deemed as acceptable, I completely lost my motivation and eventually just had to quit. I joined a quilting circle to keep myself busy while I looked for new jobs but ended up getting the recommendation of a lifetime from someone who thought that I still had a shred of artistic integrity. I can’t say I’ve ever had any interest in illustrating a children’s book, but Ethel insisted that I could help make something really special.”

Steve’s smile was warmer and brighter than the sun that tanned his skin on the deck throughout the day, and it felt like a burn when he reached out and tentatively rested his hand on top of Bucky’s, continuing, “Because I also know that you wouldn’t be where you are if your work didn’t matter. When I told my friends that I got this job, the ones with kids reacted like I was working with a rock star – not at all to insult your celebrity status. But from my perspective, as a single man with no kids in his early thirties, I had absolutely no frame of reference for this incredibly hot guy who was going to be my coworker. To my friends, though, this incredibly hot guy was how they introduced the topics of acceptance and equality to their children, taught them how to read, and coax them back to sleep after waking up in tears after a nightmare at 3 AM. Your writing matters, Bucky, but if it’s too taxing for you to keep writing something that no longer motivates you, then I wouldn’t blame you at all for quitting. Actually, from my own experiences, I’d probably encourage it. But, if you can hang on a little longer, maybe a fresh start could help spark from creative ideas.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, Bucky nodded, repeating his words a few more times in his head to absorb it all. “You’re right,” he said and nodded again after he managed to convince himself. “No, you’re absolutely right. Sorry I dumped all of that on you so suddenly. I guess I’m still getting used to not having Ethel always by my side to cry on her shoulder.”

Steve shrugged and jokingly pat his own shoulder. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ve been told that I have quite sturdy shoulders to cry on.”

Bucky laughed, and that action alone made him realize that if breaking him out of an existential breakdown was a test, Steve had certainly passed.

“If you’re up for it,” Steve began, dropping his voice lower but counteractively rising from the bed, “want to see the samples for my redesigns?”

Feeling his stomach plummet, Bucky hoped that the terror wasn’t immediately visible on his face. No matter who this new artist would be, either a new grandfather figure or a hot blonde ex-graphic designer who he assumed doubled as a body-builder, he dreaded the thought of his beloved characters being “redesigned.” Swallowing his fear, Bucky joined Steve who sat at the desk, pulling up pictures on his laptop. The only comfort for his heart pounding up into his throat came from the honey-sweet, dulcet tones and beachy, laid-back vibes of Mr. Margaritaville, as he braced himself by closing his eyes.

“It’s a little simple. But I think there’s an element of elegance or maybe sophistication in that. Like a blank canvas or a piece of music that’s just four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence that’s supposed to make you appreciate your surroundings,” Steve rambled on, making it clear that maybe he was a little nervous too. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. What do you think?” Bucky opened his eyes, as Steve explained what he was seeing, “I found that watercolor really conveyed the translucence of the actual candy but also added a modern twist to the original design. I started with just painting a blob, essentially, and then drawing the outline around that, so it’s a mix of both physical and digital media, which is nice because I haven’t actually done anything on a paper in a long time. It also means that every character is different each time I draw them, and I thought you’d like that. I got the feeling that your style was something like – improvised accidents, if that makes sense.” Interrupting himself, Steve shrugged, as a blush crept up from his neck onto his cheeks. “We can always change whatever you want. Feel free to be as brutally honest as you’d like.”

In all honesty, Bucky didn’t know how to feel when he looked down at the drawing. It wasn’t what he was expecting, but then again, he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. It was exactly what Steve described: the traditional shape of one of his bears around a red watercolor splotch, which just so happened to be Bucky’s favorite character, Cherry. Some of the color escaped the black outline so that it wasn’t perfect, and Bucky liked that – _a lot_.

“I love it,” he said once he found his voice, and Steve let out the breath he was holding. Bucky let his hand rest Steve’s shoulder, as he leaned over him, closer to the screen, beaming with a wide, toothy grin, like all the kids when they went to the concerts and the book readings and the movie premiere. “It’s fantastic, Steve.”

“Yeah, you think so?”

Bucky replied by shifting his arms to wrap around Steve’s neck, giving a gentle squeeze, and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

The spot on his face flushed a deeper red than the color of the picture, and Steve brought up a hand to rest against Bucky’s which were clasped at the base of his neck. He cleared his throat before saying, “I think it’s safe to say that we’re going to work incredibly well together.”

“Oh, absolutely."

Glancing at his watch, Steve smirked. “Now, I know I pulled you in here for a specific reason, but what would you say about going to bingo, instead?”

With an easy sigh, Bucky rested more of his weight against him. “I’d say that spending my night playing bingo with you is my absolute dream come true, Steve Rogers. After all, we have the rest of the week for – other things.”

“You mean, coming up with book ideas?”

Bucky rolled his eyes but followed him to the events hall, as he would continue to happily spend his time at Steve’s side for the rest of their vacation.

When the boat was docked back on the East Coast, Bucky walked off with a completely refreshed mindset toward his work. He had at least fifteen new ideas for books with morals and themes ranging from respecting other cultures to the importance of wearing sunblock. He had three new characters (Coconut-Lime, Mango, and Pineapple), drawn beautifully and ready to be introduced to the public. He had an amazing new artist who practically read his mind and allowed him to vent anything and everything that he was feeling. (He also had an amazing new relationship with that artist who he would eventually introduce to his friends, bring to Ethel’s Thanksgiving dinner table, and spend the rest of his life with, creating new books and series that would change the lives of thousands children, teens, and young adults.)

As it turned out, displayed on countless covers of books, promotional material, and their wedding invitations years later, _Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers_ actually sounded perfect together.


End file.
